


A Study In Rose

by JXValentine



Series: Book of the Hermit [4]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:30:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JXValentine/pseuds/JXValentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A corpse in a garden, an upset bush of roses, and what looks like a solved case. Except it isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study In Rose

I won’t say exactly why I’m writing this. If I had to give any explanation at all, it would be because someone highly suggested it for the more trying moments of my life. Apparently, there are studies that say keeping a daily account of one’s activities alleviates stress. Having had no strong interest in human psychology, I can only say it sounds valid; I can’t verify those claims myself. However, I have nothing to lose but time in writing this, and my partner can be _very_ trying now and then.

For most people, the term “partner” would be a relief; by definition, it indicates a person with whom one shares responsibilities — an equal. Don’t misunderstand. My partner and I are most certainly equals. It’s just that I have the simultaneous pleasure and misfortune to be partnered to a man with the imagination and intellectual brilliance of Nikola Tesla at the peak of his career… coupled with the eccentricity and psychological stability of Nikola Tesla during his love affair with a pidove.

When I’m in Hoenn, people talk about the system we created together as if it was mine alone, but when I go anywhere else in the world, the first question people ask me is what it’s like to work closely with Bill McKenzie. Although I could be here describing all of the requirements needed for being his partner, it can best be simplified to the fact that when I’m with him, I function as not only a colleague but also a caretaker, a translator, a bodyguard, and more. I’m the one who keeps him grounded and focused in public. Otherwise, if it’s not about pokémon, there is a very high risk that his attention may wander, and if Bill’s attention wanders, there’s no telling what would happen after that. He may be wandering into a thatch of territorial pokémon to study them, or he may be attempting to build a high-output electric generator out of a toaster.

Perhaps I’m being unfair to Bill, though. He has his methods, and he gets results from them. While he may get into trouble now and then because of his luck or his tendency to find trouble, the fact of the matter is if he decides to do something, it gets done. That may be why people speak so highly of him, although many more are well aware that the first step in seeing results from Bill is to coax him into deciding to take interest in the subject first.

I’m getting too far ahead of myself. The reason I say all of this is because of an incident that occurred not too long ago. My uncle, a detective for the Cherrygrove Police Department, requested my presence at a manor just outside the city for the explicit purpose of requiring a pokéologist on a recent case but having no one he could trust more than me. I had a feeling he would also require a pokémon ethologist, and among my colleagues, I knew of only one whose skills were unmatched — that person naturally being Bill.

Of course, I had plenty of experience dealing with Bill, so I knew exactly how to invite him on such an adventure. I left out the part about how we would be going to a manor, and I emphasized the part where he would be generously rewarded with the best coffee his home region could offer. Bill’s response, albeit obviously restrained in terms of emotion, could not have been quicker.

His enthusiasm waned on the day we went to the manor, naturally. In my personal opinion, the mansion and its grounds were peaceful. The property stretched across expanses of green fields far enough away from the city that no other building could be seen at its front gates, and the house itself… it was magnificent. Easily twenty rooms, brick facade, the architecture of an old English mansion, perfectly trimmed rose bushes on either side of the lane leading up to it, and the quaintest front door one could imagine. I, of course, pride myself in having very refined tastes in things and can therefore appreciate that kind of beauty, but despite his lifestyle choices, Bill was — and still is — harder to impress. As soon as the manor came into view, I could see the obviously bored expression on his face, and it didn’t leave when the taxi we had taken from the train station left us at the front entryway. Before we even stepped up to the door, my partner had something to say about the entire situation. 

“Why am I here?”

I rang the doorbell before dignifying his question with an answer. “My uncle asked us to come.”

“You mean he asked _you_ to come,” Bill corrected. “Is this your Uncle Mortimer, the one who works for Cherrygrove’s police?”

“He needs the advice of well-trained pokéologists, and I thought he could use a pokémon ethologist among them,” I replied. “And before you say anything, yes, it’s Uncle Mortimer. Promise me you won’t comment on his abilities as a detective, Bill.”

“I won’t say a word. In any case, why me?”

“You’re the best pokémon ethologist I know.”

“As much as I’d love to take that compliment gracefully, I’d hate to remind you that I’m a _paleo_ -ethologist. Unless your uncle’s crime was committed by a kabuto…”

The door opened before my partner could finish his thought. Behind it stood an man dressed in a black suit — a valet, if my terminology is correct. After all, the details were telling: immaculate clothing, old-fashioned white gloves, and all the look of a typical butler etched into the wrinkles of his round face. He regarded us with narrow, gray eyes before he spoke.

“Professor Lanette Chastain, I presume?”

“Yes,” I answered before motioning to my partner. “And this is my companion, Professor Bill McKenzie.”

“Ah yes,” the valet continued. “The lady of the house has been expecting you. Please follow me.”

We walked into the foyer and hallway — which, might I add, were lined floor to ceiling with more artifacts of the extravagance of the place: painted portraits set evenly apart, fine woven rugs leading down perfectly kept tiled floors, chandeliers, and all. As expected, Bill was even less impressed with the front of the building; I could see his frown deepening with each second that we continued deeper into the manor. As the valet lead us on, I hung back to speak with my partner privately.

“Allow me to establish a few rules,” I said. “First, you are not to wander out of my sight without my permission. Second, you are not to insult my uncle or anyone else who lives in this house. Third, best behavior, Bill. That includes manners.”

“Are you really worried about me that much?” he asked as he examined one of the walls.

“I can tell by your face that you would rather delve elbow deep into a muk’s excrement than be here.”

“Is that so? I’m very sorry, Lanette, but you know how comfortable these places make me feel.” He tapped his fingers on the wood running along the bottom half of one of the walls. “Hm.”

“You’re not uncomfortable in your lighthouse,” I pointed out.

“The Sea Cottage is a live work of art. It’s neo-Gothic with hand-carved details; it’s meant to be the way it is because the architect wanted to express himself. This place is a mock-Tudor mansion from the mid-20th century. You can tell by the wood paneling. It’s pine with no visible signs of aging, even considering the upkeep.” He put his hands on his hips and stared at the ceiling, clear signs that he hardly approved of the subject of our conversation. “This place was designed as a display of wealth, not artistic expression. I don’t think I need to explain why I’m not comfortable here.”

“I would be impressed with your analysis if you didn’t insult the lady of the house,” I commented.

“Why would it be insulting? She would already know about it. After all, she was the one who commissioned the house to be built.”

“How can you be so sure of that?”

“We’re seeing her and not the manor’s lord, aren’t we? Clearly, this woman is someone who’s assertive. She insists on making decisions. The other possibilities are that her husband is away or that her husband is dead, but both are unlikely. It’s clear this house is well-maintained but old-fashioned in style. The woman is of the mindset that the lady of the house is only expected to be the lady of the house. She wouldn’t be earning the income needed to maintain this household, and while an inheritance could be in the question, this mansion was built, not inherited. Therefore, it had to have been the husband’s money that built this house, and considering much of this architecture is very new, the husband is thus still alive. I can’t say whether or not he’s here, but I can tell that either way would be moot because it was his wife who decided that this be built to her specifications because of the wood of the wall. They’re an older couple, you see. You can tell because a younger wealthy couple would go for a more modern style of house; they’d seek out and buy up an old and authentic manor if they wanted anything else. However, as I’ve said, the woman is the lady of the house, and as such, she's probably not as well-versed in carpentry as she would be in other matters that would have more to do with her interests. Why pine paneling, after all, instead of something significantly more tasteful and less flammable?” He tapped the wall again to punctuate his point. “Therefore, the victim of your uncle’s case is an older woman roughly fifty to sixty-five years of age, well-educated but not in matters of architecture or carpentry, conservative enough to believe herself to be the lady of the house, and equipped with very solid proof that she is.”

“The only reason why I’m impressed is because you can figure all of that out based on wood, yet you don’t know who our prime minister is.”

“People can tell the difference between one prime minister and the next?”

Had we been anywhere else, I would have laughed, especially knowing that my partner's question was sincere, but at that moment, we arrived in a sitting room at the end of the hallway. It was a spacious place with ornate and clearly expensive decorations — vases, paintings, and so forth — lining the walls. In the center of the room, there was a mahogany table with a china tea set sitting neatly on its top, and two white and gold couches flanked it on either side. Clearly, the woman had better taste in furniture than in building designs, if my partner’s analysis was to be believed.

More importantly, on one couch sat my uncle and two police officers, including one of the local Officer Jennies. Across the table sat an elderly woman no older than sixty, and to her left a younger woman of thirty sat with her hands wringing a silk handkerchief. Behind the couch stood three maids, all of whom looked rather nervous to be there, and beside them stood one roserade who looked like she was trying her hardest to contain her anger.

“Fifty-five to sixty,” my partner whispered. “Bingo.”

“Behave,” I told him.

Once the valet announced our arrival, I stepped forward. My uncle was on his feet right away to approach us.

“Lanette, it’s good to see you. Thank you both for coming,” he said in a low voice.

“We came as quickly as we could,” I answered. “How can we help?”

“It’s an unfortunate affair, I’m afraid. We have an accidental death.”

“An accidental death? What happened?”

“We’ll get you up to speed shortly. But first, I would like you to meet the Lady Tabitha Blackthorn-Wiles and her niece Penelope.”

“How do you do,” the lady responded politely. “I do hope this matter can be cleared up rather quickly. The entire thing is positively dreadful!”

The police officers stood to make way for my partner and me. We both sat on the newly cleared couch, and one of the maids quickly set about pouring us tea. In the meantime, I could see out of the corner of my eye my partner regarding both the tea set and Penelope carefully.

“Yes, I would imagine so,” I said. “Would you mind telling us what we need to know?”

“Of course!” the lady responded. “It was my maid, you see. The oldest and most loyal personal servant I had besides Winston here. She was the one who died. We found her in the garden, Penelope and I. Positively dreadful!”

“When did you find her?” I asked.

“Just the other day, in the early morning. Every morning at eight o’ clock sharp, I take a morning walk around the gardens to visit my collection of roselia and roserade. Since my niece Penelope arrived at the estate, she has accompanied me for each of these walks. The morning we found Vanessa, we strolled around the garden as usual, and there she was, lying in the pathway.”

“I see. Did you notice anything unusual that day?”

“That was the other thing. Lately, the roselia and roserade have been unusually hostile to me during my walks. They never attacked me, of course, but whenever I caught the slightest glimpse of my darling roses, they would growl until I passed! It has been as if they were about to attack me! Poor Vanessa must have gotten caught by a particularly irritated one.”

“Is that so?” I asked.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my partner glance in roserade’s direction. I had a feeling I knew what he was thinking. 

“Yes! Just ask the police officers!” the lady replied.

“It’s true,” my uncle told me. He took a vial out of his coat pocket and leaned over to press it into my hand. “We extracted this from the victim’s clothing. Poison Powder from the resident pokémon.”

I held the vial up to the light and shook the powder inside. It was a dull purple dust — Poison Powder for certain, but questions rose in my mind immediately, despite my uncle’s accuracy in identifying it.

“Oh, you must do something!” the lady begged. “I’m afraid that if this continues, they may attack the house!”

“Unlikely,” I responded lightly. “Tell me. When did this start?”

“Why, seven days ago, just before Penelope arrived. They were so darling to me before then!”

I folded my hands in my lap. “I notice you specify that they were nice to you. Were they aggressive or less friendly towards anyone else?”

“Well… only one person, I’m afraid.” The lady bowed her head. “They were never fond of my husband, you see. He used to wear this cologne that drove them absolutely mad. Even the slightest hint would send them into a frenzy! Why, I even had to change clothes before going into the garden, just in case there was a lingering whiff of it in the fabric!”

“I see,” I said. “Did they ever become violent with either of you?”

“Why, no, never!” The lady hesitated. “Well… they have always wanted to attack my husband, but I gave them explicit orders against it. They would never harm a soul! You must understand, these flowers were the gentlest creatures before this! All they ever did concerning my husband’s cologne was growl when he approached!”

“Lady Blackthorn,” my partner finally said, “would you mind if I asked you a few personal questions?”

She blinked at him, and I honestly couldn’t blame her a bit. “Why, no, I suppose not.”

“How is your relationship with your husband?”

Penelope gasped and hid her mouth behind a hand, and Lady Tabitha’s eyes went wide. I myself cast a warning glance at Bill, but he was unfortunately too focused on the lady to notice.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked.

“Your relationship with your husband, madame,” he repeated. “The two of you aren’t close, I presume?”

“We love each other deeply, thank you!”

“And what about your relationship with Penelope here? Have the two of you always been close?”

“I don’t see what this has to do with the roselia,” the lady snapped.

“It may provide some of the most vital clues we have to solving this mystery,” my partner responded. “Please, madame, if you wouldn’t mind.”

The lady inhaled, and judging by her expression — narrowed eyes, pursed lips, and folded hands, for starters — I could tell she was restraining her irritation. “This is the first time in nearly twenty years that I’ve seen my niece. She is from Unova, after all. This was meant to be a relaxing family reunion.”

“So you haven’t actually seen Penelope for the past twenty years.”

“No.”

“No pictures?”

“What exactly does this have to do with Vanessa’s death or the roselia’s current behavior?”

“And your husband is away on an extended leave?”

“My husband left on an emergency business trip two days before Penelope was to arrive.”

“Two days? How unusual. And what’s Penelope’s relation to you, then? Is she your blood relative or relative by marriage?”

“I refuse to answer any question that has nothing to do with the roselia!”

At that point, I touched my partner’s arm. He finally looked at me, and we locked gazes for a second. I didn’t have to say a word; he normally knows exactly what I mean in those states.

“Very well then,” Bill said calmly. “One last question, and this is more obviously related to your garden.” He pointed at the roserade behind the lady’s couch, who was by then glowering dangerously at both the lady and Penelope. “Do the roselia consider that roserade to be their pack leader?”

Believing this to be the beginning of the answers she was looking for, the lady visibly relaxed. “Yes. This roserade has been with me since I was a little girl, so the others follow everything it says. Normally, she accompanies me throughout the house, but ever since Penelope came to stay with us, she’s been rather elusive.”

“Well, then, I believe I’ve figured out the identity of your murderer,” Bill replied.

Even I had to start at that statement, despite the fact that I had theories of my own.

“Murderer?” the lady answered. “Isn’t that a bit brash? The roselia certainly didn’t intend on—”

“On the contrary,” Bill interrupted, “the roselia had nothing to do with your maid’s death, other than to protect you, and all things considered, they’ve been successful so far.”

“Protect me?!”

“Yes. Allow me to explain. The most important clue was the Poison Powder. Lanette, I do believe you know the secret to that one, so I’ll let you explain.”

I unfolded my hands and examined the vial in my lap. “Yes. I found it strange that you discovered Poison Powder on what was supposedly a victim of the roselia, Uncle. You might not have realized this because roselia aren’t native to Johto, but I’ve seen them enough to know that they can’t use Poison Powder. All of their toxins come in the form of sap that coats their thorns. Their actual pollen isn’t poisonous enough to kill an adult human being. At worst, they may cause severe allergic reactions in individuals who are already allergic to the pollen of ordinary flora.”

The lady gasped. “But Vanessa isn’t allergic to flower pollen!”

“I thought not. Otherwise, you would have attributed it to anaphylaxis shock thanks to a perfectly ordinary pollen allergy.”

“It’s forgivable that you blamed the roselia,” Bill added sternly. “These pokémon were bred as pets, not for battling purposes.”

The lady’s expression hardened into a glare at once. I nearly chided my partner, but he was swift to cut off the both of us.

“However…” He reached over to pick the vial up and examine the contents. “This is most definitely pollen from a flower pokémon, as opposed to spores from a mushroom pokémon or the pollen from a grass- or vine-based one. That narrows the list of possibilities of what the culprit could be down to at most thirteen possibilities. I assume you have no other flowers in your garden?”

“No,” the lady said harshly.

“And did you see Vanessa at all before your walk?”

“She served us morning tea. It must have been at least a half an hour from the moment we left her to the moment we found her body.”

“I assume you didn’t see any blood or vomit about the victim? Had the color of her skin changed?”

“No! Not at all! Her face was the most dreadful pallid color imaginable, but…”

“Then the toxin was fast-acting, but it was severe enough to induce an allergic reaction. Her throat closed. That was how she died.” My partner took a deep breath. “Madame, there is only one pokémon that excretes toxic pollen to force its prey to choke to death, even if that prey had no signs of a pollen allergy up until that point. Your murderer owns a vileplume.”

“A vileplume?” the lady repeated shrilly. “But I don’t know anyone who owns a vileplume!”

“Perhaps you do,” Bill continued. “Your roselia began acting out a couple of days before Penelope arrived. That was when your husband supposedly left. They continued behaving abnormally each time you took your morning walk because they could smell his cologne.”

“That’s impossible!” the lady cried. “My maids have washed every garment I own thoroughly! The roselia wouldn’t be able to smell it on me at all!”

“I never said they smelled it on you. You see, madame, Vanessa was out in the garden that morning for the same reason that the roselia have been uneasy. They both knew something was going to harm you. Servants and pokémon hear plenty of things, after all. Treat them well, and they’ll put themselves on the line to protect you.”

“I treat my pokémon and servants with the utmost care!”

“Apparently you do. Far better than your husband, anyway.”

“I fail to see what that has to do with—”

My partner raised a hand. “Here is what actually happened that morning. Vanessa caught a glimpse of the pokémon that was sent to kill you—”

“Kill me?!”

“—the vileplume that’s been wandering about your grounds without your notice. She tried to stop it, but as you can see, she wasn’t particularly successful.”

Lady Tabitha covered her mouth in horror. As I watched the lady and her niece, I began to notice a darkening expression on Penelope’s face.

“Meanwhile, the roselia have been sensing your husband’s cologne on someone close to you.” Bill lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes at the handkerchief Penelope held. “…Perhaps on a handkerchief she carries with her everywhere she goes?”

“Why, that’s absolutely preposterous!” the lady protested. “Penelope has never…”

Her voice trailed off, and the woman looked increasingly dumbfounded. My partner leaned in to speak to her in a low voice.

“The Lady Tabitha Blackthorn-Wiles. Blackthorn, for the family that founded Blackthorn City; Wiles, for the wildly successful banker from Goldenrod City. You’re a very wealthy woman either way… but especially so with the inheritance from your father. Isn’t that right?”

“That’s right,” the lady said vaguely.

“Your husband is cheating on you,” Bill told her frankly, as if he actually cared about her well-being (which he most likely did, despite his disapproval of her lifestyle — what with it being in his nature to do so). “The reason why your husband’s cologne is on Penelope’s handkerchief is because your niece is scandalously close to your husband. They were planning on killing you to get your inheritance so your husband and his mistress could run off together.”

“Liar!”

The cry did not come from the lady. It instead came from her niece, who had leapt to her feet at the conclusion of Bill’s theory. She looked positively livid with her eyes widening at my partner and her handkerchief balled into one of her tight fists. At the sight of her, Bill merely leaned back and smiled.

“Am I now? Roselia are awfully territorial, you know, so I doubt they would lie. But I wouldn’t be surprised if I got a detail or few wrong, so please enlighten us.”

By then, I noticed that the roserade behind the couch was growling menacingly. Her bouquets were glowing bright purple as she crouched and readied herself.

“You can’t prove a thing,” Penelope said with a sudden grin. “You’re just making things up!”

“Oh, I think you’ve proven me right enough. You’re panicking, Penelope. Your face is paler. Your voice is just an octave higher. You’re shaking. Might I truly be scaring you that much?”

It was true. Penelope looked much like a mouse slowly realizing she was caught in a trap. Even as my partner continued, she seemed to grow angrier and angrier.

“You know, there’s an easy way to find out,” he said. “I have a kadabra, Lanette has several suitable pokémon, and I’m sure the police have growlithe. All we’d have to do is send them into Lady Blackthorn’s garden to hunt down your vileplume, which I have no doubt is wandering about the grounds among the roselia. Maybe that’s why the roselia have gotten so agitated too. It must be rather uncomfortable having an intruder in one’s home, after all.”

Penelope still refused to speak. In fact, I was certain that with each passing second, she was growing paler and paler, and her expression was slowly turning into one of fear. These kinds of moments were the ones where I had to appreciate my partner’s skill. He certainly had a way of finding a person’s strengths and weaknesses. On most days, this wouldn’t be such a problem because he would never be the kind of person who would use the information he gathered against another person. He is by far unlike Bebe in that regard, and for that, I’ve always been more than thankful. On the other hand, if he’s in a particularly bad mood — such as he was then because of how uncomfortable our environment made him — he was more than willing to use everything he had to relieve… tension. For example, it was more than effective on Penelope, who was nearing the end her patience towards my partner.

“What will it be, Penelope?” he asked. “Will it help you make a decision if I told you I also know you have no intention of marrying Lady Blackthorn’s husband? You’re young and nervous. It’s taking you quite a bit of effort to control yourself at a simple interrogation. I don’t believe you would last long in a marriage based on murder.”

“Murder wasn’t even part of the plan!” Penelope shouted. “All we were supposed to do is drug the woman, force her to sign the divorce papers, and take back everything this witch leeched from him!”

While most of us sat in silence, Bill, being the extraordinary judge of appropriateness at any given moment, sat back and chuckled.

“Ah, so part of it is true, then!” he said triumphantly.

“Of course it’s true, you little twerp, and you want to know what else? I wasn’t intending on marrying her husband, either! I would have pulled the same stunt on him and taken everything for myself! Did you see that in your analysis?”

“Yes,” my partner replied. “I was hoping you weren’t that uncreative. But it’s good that we got that cleared up. I assume you’ll go quietly, then?”

Penelope laughed, and I admit I lost faith in my partner’s skills for a brief second when she did. I was scared. I’m ashamed to admit it, but how could I possibly help myself? Especially when she pulled a gun from a thigh holster and pointed it at us.

“Finally, something you’re wrong about!” she said. “No, I’m going to walk out of here, and all of you are going to sit there quietly and—”

Luckily, the roserade took the opportunity to jam one of her glowing bouquets into Penelope’s back. Penelope collapsed over the fine china set, and I regret to write that the entire set was broken.

While the police busied themselves with cleaning Penelope off the floor, the Lady Blackthorn watched with the most horrendously confused look on her face. Her mouth hung agape, her eyes were wide, and I don’t believe I’ve seen any face paler than hers was then.

“Dreadful situation indeed,” my partner said. “Madame, the roselia shouldn’t trouble you any more… if the police are quick about collecting your husband and his mistress’s vileplume from the garden, in any case. You should be proud that your pokémon care about you so deeply they would keep an eye on you so closely. What will you do now?”

The lady relaxed slightly as she, most understandably, stared in distress at her broken set. “Quite honestly, I don’t know.”

“Well, if you need some suggestions,” my uncle stepped in. “I would propose finding a good lawyer and filing for divorce after all.”

The lady daintily fanned herself with a hand and sighed. “Oh, all of this is simply awful, but I must thank you for your help. Is there anything I can do as a reward?”

My partner naturally took the opportunity to reply, “Well, I do believe someone in this party promised fine coffee.”

By a stroke of luck, the lady was somehow happy to oblige. It took the entirety of the travel back to town to explain to Bill that he had incited a murder, but I highly doubt the lesson sank into his brain. I can say this, of course, because this was only the first of many, many adventures he coerced me to endure with him.

Then again, I can’t entirely fault him for doing what he does best by making my life far from boring. Perhaps that’s why I can’t argue with him whenever he requests my assistance.


End file.
